


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by squilf



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Christmas, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2020-02-10 20:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18668062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: Arthur is a geek, Eames is a drop-out, and Dom is Arthur’s best friend (even though he’s a douche). Oh, and by the way, it’s Christmas, and there’s a ghost.And I have gone insane what even is this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azareel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azareel/gifts).



> 1 May 2019:
> 
> I originally wrote this as a Christmas gift for Azareel back in 2012, and posted it on [LiveJournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/8784.html/) and [FanFiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7682912/1/All-I-Want-For-Christmas-Is-You/).
> 
> I took a break from all things fandom in early 2013. I ended up being away completely for a few years, and then just dipped my toe in for the next couple. I only _really_ came back and started writing fic again last year, and I so am grateful that the community was still here for me.
> 
> So, yeah, I never got around to finishing this. But I may well come back to it - it only needs one more chapter, after all!

Now, before we begin, there’s a few important things you need to know, otherwise this story won’t make much sense. This story is about a boy called Arthur. It’s also about a boy called Eames. And a load of other people too. And a ghost. But mostly Arthur and Eames.

Arthur is a geek. Well, Beverley Arthur Marlowe-Farrell is a geek. He doesn’t like being called Beverley, and really, you can hardly blame him. You can get teased about anything when you’re a kid – for wearing glasses, for being a geek, for having a funny name, for liking other boys – and Arthur’s been teased about all of those. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re different. Arthur’s in his second year of college, studying Physics, Chemistry, Maths and Geometry. He’s sent in his application to University now. He’s applied to Oxford, and he’s done an interview. He doesn’t really expect to get in. He doesn’t really know what he wants to do.

Eames is a drop-out. Eames has always been just Eames – everyone just calls him by his last name. Like Arthur, he doesn’t like his first name. What it is in anybody’s guess. (Ariadne’s made some interesting guesses. “What about Shirley? Cherokee? Dakota? Oh come on, no boy wants to be named after a woman, a Native American tribe, or a state of America!”) Eames dropped out of Hartley College a while ago now. He’d been doing Theatre Studies because he liked it and, let’s be honest, it was a complete doss. But now he’s living on his own in a little flat. He has friends, but it’s lonely. He didn’t really expect things to turn out this way. He doesn’t really know what to do.

They’re both eighteen, and they’re both a little lost.

Arthur’s sixteen when he meets Eames. It’s their first day of college. Arthur’s cycling in and he’s not looking where’s going and then there’s someone in the way and he swerves but he still ends up crashing into him. He half-falls off his bike, knocking Eames onto his back and landing, sprawled, on top of him. Eames smiles up at him, his eyes cold blue, and said, “Well, hello there.” Arthur’s been in love with him ever since. They’re not _close_ , just friendly. Eames has his own mates and Arthur has Dom, who’s his best friend even though he’s a douche, and seems to have this strange idea that Arthur has a thing for Eames. Because. No. Arthur actually _doesn’t_ have a crush on Eames, no, shut up, Dom, you douchebag, he _doesn’t_ , OK, and yeah, he supposes Eames is attractive, if you’re into that sort of thing, which he _isn’t_ , by the way, just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he likes every guy he comes across, and Dom, if you mention Yusuf’s 18th again, you won’t live to see the series finale of _Doctor Who_.

What exactly Arthur and Eames did at Yusuf’s 18th is a much-disputed tale among the college kids. Nothing will persuade Arthur to tell anyone what happened, not even the original script of _Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan_. But Saito is only too happy to tell the world his own version of events. Saito’s the resident rich kid at Hartley College. The lower sixth kids basically worship him, because he has a huge house – no, not a house, a _mansion_ , and that’s just the one in England – and his parents don’t seem to care about what two hundred college kids are doing to it at four in the morning. There’s a cluster of them gathered around him about two months after Yusuf’s 18th, and he’s regaling them with the tale.

“Guys. Shut up. No guys, just shut up. Don’t tell Arthur I told you this, he’s kind of touchy about it – well, actually, if he knew I told you, he’d probably kill me by wrenching his Xbox from its socket and bashing my head in with it, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Dom, shut up, you douchebag, I’m trying to tell these guys a story. _Your_ _mum_ is boring. Anyway, guys, no really, shut up, _anyway_ , so, Yusuf had this big house party – he managed to get his parents out of the house, or he drugged them with some kind of soporific, I forget which – and practically the whole year came. Of course, everyone got hammered, which was kind of awesome, ‘cause we managed to persuade Ariadne she didn’t have any toes, which was _hilarious_ , until she started crying, so we gave her chocolate and then she started building towers out of it, which was a bit weird to be honest.

“And Arthur was just sitting there in the corner, looking more awkward than, I don’t know, something really awkward, because Dominick here was in the hallway making out with Mal. I know, I know, she is _way_ out of his league – because you’re a massive nerd, Dom, that’s why. You _are_ very pretty, though, I mean, I thought you guys were a lesbian couple. To be fair on Mal, she had drunk about five bottles of wine by that point, and French girls don’t get drunk easy, but when they do, they will get on anything that _moves_ , I’m telling you. Oh shut up, Dom, you’ve only been trying to get in her pants for the last, like, four years. Yeah, so, Arthur literally had _one_ bottle of beer, and he’d just been sitting there drinking it for over an hour, it was pretty tragic, and his alcohol threshold is as low as a baby hedgehog’s or something, seriously.

“By the time Eames got there, Arthur was pretty drunk, and he’s an affectionate drunk, not like _Dom_ , who gets emotional and cries because he’s worried about the environment and yells at people to recycle if they go near him. Dominick, love? _Shut up_. So, Arthur was really glad to have someone to talk to, ‘cause he’d just been marinating in his own thoughts for ages, so he basically _flung_ himself on Eames, crying, ‘Oh _God_ , don’t leave me!’ and Eames had to hug him for about ten minutes until he calmed down enough to let go of him. And then Eames was like, ‘Let’s sit you down on the sofa, love,’ and he was going to go get him some water, but Arthur pulled him down and crawled on top of him, and it looked like he was going to _rape_ him or something, but he just _cuddled_ him. He got really into it, he was nuzzling his neck and saying, ‘I love you,’ and everything, and Eames just laughed and ruffled his hair and said, ‘I love you too, darling’, it was actually so cute. It made a nice change that no-one having sex on that sofa for once, I’ve been to four parties at Yusuf’s, and someone’s been having sex on it every time. Hey, Dom, it was only that _one time,_ and we were both pretty hammered. We call it the shag sofa, that’s why it has those stains on it.

“Yeah, so, Arthur and Eames were there for _hours_ , and in the end, they fell asleep, though how they managed to with Ariadne screaming at Dom for knocking over her chocolate tower and him screaming at her because cocoa plantations aren’t environmentally sustainable, I’ll never know. I have photographic evidence that you _were_ , Dom, don’t deny it. Yusuf said Arthur and Eames didn’t wake up until like, one o’clock the next day, and Eames was just like, ‘Morning beautiful’ and made them some tea, ‘cause that’s like a religious ritual if you’re English, and Arthur was _so_ embarrassed. And then everyone put pictures of them up on Facebook, and Dom commented saying ‘get a room’ and Yusuf said ‘you and Mal were using it’ and Arthur untagged himself from everything. This was like, two months ago now, though. I can’t believe they’re not together, they’d be such a cute couple.”

And that’s probably enough of Saito talking for one day. There are many ways to tell a guy you like them, but Arthur’s method is probably not the best. He spent the month following Yusuf’s 18th avoiding Eames like a Xenomorph facehugger. To be fair, it’s not really his fault he can’t flirt – it’s not like he has a lot of experience. He used to have a thing for _Dom_ , for the love of God. Those dark days are over, but things haven’t exactly improved a great deal. It’s been about eight months since Yusuf’s 18th now. He’s still a dork, he’s still socially inept, and he still likes someone who’s _completely out of his league_ , not to mention straight. Well, Eames has been single for the past, what, year, which is, well, _how_ did that happen, he’s actually _gorgeous_ , who wouldn’t want a piece of _that_ , but he used to go out with Ariadne, and they weren’t together for that long, but still, that’s enough to convince Arthur of Eames’ disappointing but inevitable heterosexuality. Anyway, it’s not like he likes Eames, because he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t daydream about him while doodling hearts in his Maths exercise book, or feel funny when he sees him, like he’s been zapped (non-fatally) by a Dalek, or put his headphones on and sing along to One Direction thinking about him, _really_ , shut _up_ Dom.

Anyway, that’s all you need to know about Arthur and Eames, for now at least. Otherwise you’ll end up finding out about irrelevant things, like how Eames got so bored hanging around all day that he’s started a YouTube channel where he just sort of rants about stuff but he’s got 124 subscribers, or how Arthur likes eating M&Ms in colour order, or how Eames has awful writing that looks like a spider’s crawled across the page, or how Arthur has an almost unhealthy love of all things science fiction, or how Eames secretly likes _Glee_. So let’s just get on with the story now, before you get bored with all this backstory and go onto Twitter and tweet _just read a crap story, lol._ or go and watch _EastEnders_ or something.

So, today is Sunday 21st December, and Arthur’s cycling to Dom’s on his worn-out bike with a rusty bell that croaks half-heartedly like a wookie with a sore throat, and should probably be wearing a helmet, but it’s only a short journey and he can’t find his helmet so stuff it, he’ll live dangerously today. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and a blue cardigan and skinny jeans and tatty red converse and thick-rimmed glasses which are actually prescribed because he’s not a hipster, and a t-shirt that says _Zombie Mozart is Decomposing_ because his mum got in for his birthday and it makes him smile even though he does prefer Beethoven (really, just _look_ at their piano concertos, KV. 449 doesn’t _compare_ to Opus 733, no-one _cares_ about what you think, Dom, shut up). He’s not exactly the coolest kid on the block, but he is pretty cute, with those long dark curls and dark eyelashes and skinny frame. At least, that’s what his mum says. If you saw him, you’d probably agree with her.

He cycles past Eames’ house, because that’s the way to Dom’s, it’s not like he looks in the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of him, it’s not like once he saw him getting dressed and nearly crashed into his elderly neighbour Mr Nash because it was that distracting, and Eames is in the front garden, leaning against a table with _stuff_ heaped onto and around it, and there’s a cardboard sign with the words _GARRIDGE SALE_ scrawled onto it. (His handwriting’s awful, and so is his spelling.) And Arthur’s living dangerously today so he _stops the bike_ and feels rather reckless for it.

“Arthur!” Eames calls, grinning, “I’m clearing out. Care to sample my wares? I’m sure I can tempt you with something.”

Arthur is also sure that Eames can tempt him with something. He ditches his bike on the lawn and goes over to him. He’s surrounded by random objects – stacks of old CDs and DVDs, musty books, worn-out clothes, an ugly black vase, a dusty lamp, faded blue crockery. Arthur considers buying one of Eames’ old hoodies just so he can wear it at night and smell him, and then he realises that that is sad, verging on psychotic, but this doesn’t really bother him, which is probably more disturbing.

“How’re you doing?” Arthur asks.

They both know the real question is _What are you doing with your life since you dropped out of college?_ but Eames just says, “Oh, I’m OK.”

Arthur grabs a few old paperbacks and thumbs through them, but he’s not really looking, he just needs something to do with his hands and eyes.

“No luck with work, I guess?”

“No,” Eames says, and it’s abrupt, like he’s answered the question a hundred times before.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, looking up from the books.

Eames shrugs.

“Hey-ho, that’s life.”

Arthur bites his lip, doesn’t know what to say. _I’m sorry you’re unemployed and living alone and only have six GCSEs_ doesn’t really sound that great. Everyone knows it’s like that, though, everyone knows Eames has been out of college and out of work for nearly six months now. It’s pretty grim.

“There’s no need to look at me like _that_ ,” Eames says, “I’m not quite done for yet.”

Arthur ducks his head, looks down at the books he’s holding.

“Oh darling, it’s alright,” says Eames, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m a drop-out, there’s a recession, what do you expect, eh? Something’ll come along.”

Arthur realises that they’re kind of having this conversation the wrong way round, and he should be the one comforting Eames, but he’s mostly focusing on the fact that Eames is touching him and calling him _darling_ , which he totally _doesn’t_ enjoy a bit too much and hasn’t featured in any fantasies at all, shut _up_ , Dom.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

“Anyway, how are you?” Eames asks brightly, patting his arm reassuringly before letting go.

“I’m alright,” says Arthur, rubbing the back of his neck, “Just… doing college stuff, really.”

“Good for you. You’ll do brilliantly, Arthur, I know you will, and go to Oxford and make us all proud.”

“Well, Oxford’s a bit of a long shot,” Arthur murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” says Eames, sarcastic but fond, “What were your grades again? If I remember correctly, it was straight As, wasn’t it?”

Arthur smiles sheepishly.

“Er, yeah.”

Now, Arthur doesn’t know a great deal about what other people find attractive, but he’s guessing intelligence isn’t a big turn-on. To receive a compliment about your intellect is great from your teacher, but not really from your crush. Not that Eames is Arthur’s crush. Because. He’s not. Just to clarify that. Still, it’s always nice to know that you’re valued for your mind, not just for your great body.

“Clever clogs,” says Eames warmly.

Arthur feels like he should say something nice about Eames too, because it’s only polite, but he can’t think of anything to compliment him on apart from his face or his torso or various other parts of his anatomy which he probably shouldn’t have seen but then Eames should learn to use curtains, shouldn’t he.

“You gonna buy that?” Eames asks, gesturing towards the books Arthur’s been holding for the last few minutes.

“Er,” says Arthur, looking at them.

It’s a collection of _romance novels_. The one on top has a picture of a man and woman doing something they probably shouldn’t be on a bed, really, what if _children_ saw that, and the title is _The Playboy Sheikh’s Virgin Stable-Girl_. What the actual _hell_.

“Why do you have this?” he asks slowly.

“Why are you looking at it?”

“Er, I didn’t notice what it was, virgin Sheikhs and… playboys aren’t really my, er, cup of tea,” Arthur stammers, putting the books down, “I’m – I’m more into science fiction.”

Arthur knows that saying he prefers battles with hybrid alien clones to racy encounters with Sheikh stable-girls is probably worthy of losing at least fifty man points, but well, he’s said it now.

“Did you – read that?” he asks hesitantly, curiosity getting the better of him, and we all know that curiosity leads to cat deaths, which isn’t good, unless you don’t like cats, in which case it’s OK.

Eames winks.

“I skipped to the good bits.”

I can only describe Arthur’s expression as a _What are you_ on _, Eames?_ look.

“I’m only joking with you, darling!” Eames grins, “I found this lot in the bookshelf when I moved in.”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Arthur, relieved, “I was going to say.”

Then Eames starts laughing at him, face scrunching up, and it is actually really cute, but Arthur never likes being laughed at because he’s been laughed at all his life, which is what you get, I suppose, if you’re a nerdy kid with braces, and he frowns and hits him, not very hard, but hard enough to feel his muscles, and, woah, he needs to sit down or something now, _seriously_.

“Your _face_ ,” Eames chuckles, ruffling his hair, “Awh, bless you.”

Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying these displays of affection. Luckily, no-one’s asking him about it, so he doesn’t have to lie, because lying is wrong, kids, even though we all do it, even grown-up people who should know better. Arthur pouts, but he can’t stop himself from smiling when Eames tucks a curl behind his ear fondly. He bites his lip, and knows he’s blushing, because Eames’ hand is _brushing his face_ , and he’s always liked his hands, because they’re strong and reassuring and just _nice_ , and _ugh_ , he’s going to lie awake tonight and think about this and – totally not do anything inappropriate.

Then Eames folds his arms and says, “So, anything I can interest you in?”

“Huh?” says Arthur.

Then he remembers the context of the situation, and that sentence doesn’t sound so wrong.

“Oh, right, the _garage sale_ , yes, um, I think I’ll just get these,” he says, grabbing a few DVDs that look vaguely interesting, some sci-fi stuff anyway, and they’re probably a bit dodgy and old but he’s seen some pretty awful films in his time, including _Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell_ , no, it’s a real film, look it up, and rummaging in his jeans pocket for a fiver that’s crumpled up in there.

“I’d say, about three quid for that?” says Eames.

“Keep the change,” says Arthur, shoving the note on him.

“You really don’t have to.”

“Oh, no,” he glances at the DVD titles, “I’m sure, er, _Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone_ is worth every penny.”

He can’t help but wonder what exactly _the forbidden zone_ is, but he guesses he’ll find out soon enough.

“Hey,” says Eames, grabbing a worn desert scarf from the table, “Have this.”

He puts it round Arthur’s neck, the soft yellow material oddly working with his outfit.

“Don’t catch cold, eh?” he says.

“Thanks,” Arthur smiles shyly.

“No problem, darling.”

Arthur clumsily shoves the DVDs in his bag.

“So, er, you doing anything for Christmas?”

Eames shrugs.

“Don’t think so. I suppose I’ll _have_ to go round my dad’s. But I swear to God, I don’t know if I can put up with _that woman_ for a whole day.”

Arthur grimaces. He knows only too well how much Eames hates Shania, his dad’s girlfriend. Eames has spoken passionately, if illogically, on the subject on a number of occasions. (“I mean, her name is Shania. _Shania_. How am I supposed to _not_ hate her guts? Her name is _Shania_ , Arthur.”)

“We’re having the whole family over for Christmas,” says Arthur, shouldering his bag, “There’s going to be, like, twenty-three relatives round my house. It’s going to be _carnage_.”

Eames chuckles.

“Sounds it.”

Arthur fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. He really isn’t looking forward to Christmas. He’s just hoping his mum gets him the _Star Trek Voyager Complete Collection_ DVD, and then it’ll be worth it. Even if Dom will talk all the way through it when they have an all-night _Star Trek Voyager_ marathon (because they totally will). But maybe Christmas doesn’t have to be so utterly awful this year.

“Well, erm,” he says, “There’s going to be loads of us anyway, so, I mean, I don’t think anyone would mind one extra, if you, you know, you wanted to come?”

It’s possibly the worst attempt he’s ever made to ask someone out, apart from that time he asked Eames round his and he ended up saying “Come back to my place”. (But hey, it worked – he came round and they watched _(500) Days of Summer_ and Eames made him laugh by saying “Awh, I love JGL. He’s just, uh, just so _nng,_ you know?” and then he slung his arm over the back of the sofa and therefore also Arthur.)

“Oh,” says Eames, “That’s – that’s really nice of you, Arthur. I mean, if your mum’s fine with it – I don’t want to be a hassle for her.”

Arthur’s mind is struggling to compute the fact that Eames just said yes, but at the moment he’s about as dull-witted as the Doog from _Star Control II_. (Don’t look at me, I don’t know either. Go on Wikipedia or something.)

“Yeah, no, yeah, no, no, she won’t mind, she likes you, she thinks you’re a nice young man, well so do I – er, what I mean is, mum will be cool with it.”

Eames looks a bit confused, which isn’t really surprising, considering that Arthur’s making about 10-15% sense.

“So, I can come?”

“Yes, absolutely, it’d be great, if you want to, that is. I want you. To come. You’ll have to stay away from Auntie Cora, she talks for ages about her health, and you _really_ don’t want to hear about her diseased gall bladder. And _please_ keep Lily away from me, she’s ten, she cornered me under the mistletoe last year, I am _not_ doing that again.”

Eames grins.

“You actually put up mistletoe?”

“My mum does. I’m pretty sure it’s just so I end up kissing all of my elderly aunts. I mean, you’re meant to get someone you _like_ under the mistletoe.”

“Maybe you could this year.”

Arthur looks down, feels his cheeks growing hotter.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs.

When he looks up, Eames has this amused half-smile on his face.

“What?” asks Arthur.

“Nothing. You’re just very sweet.”

Arthur shuffles from foot to foot, trying to keep a stupid grin off his face. He doesn’t manage it.

“Um, so yeah,” he says, snapping out of his Eames-just-said-I’m-sweet-even-though-I’ve-considered-making-vigorous-love-to-him trance, “Come over Christmas day, OK? I’ll, I’ll text you, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.”

Arthur dithers a little before Eames pulls him in for a hug, laughing.

“See you around, darling.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Arthur’s about ten seconds away from swooning, but he stumbles over to his bike and climbs on. Eames gives him a two-fingered salute as he cycles away, and he is _utterly ridiculous_ but Arthur loves it.  



	2. Chapter 2

“You’re late,” says Dom, not looking away from the TV, thumbs working over the controller like it’s an extension of his body, which it kind of is by now. Arthur dumps his bag on the floor of Dom’s bombsite of a bedroom, making a mental note of the items next to it – a green sock and a copy of  _Brave New World_  – so he can find it amongst the debris later.

“I’m not  _that_  late,” he says.

“ _Not that late_?” Dom cries, flapping an arm towards the TV screen like a maimed goose flapping its wings in a death coil, “ _Look,_ Arthur, I’m in Denerim already. With Morrigan.”

“Oh, alone time with a scantily-clad witch,” says Arthur, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

 “What took you so long?”

“I got caught talking on the way here.”

Arthur starts picking his way through the wreckage. He learnt long ago to wear shoes at all times in Dom’s room. It’s never nice, standing on something slimy and not knowing what it is. He’s surprised Dom hasn’t contracted any diseases yet.

“Must’ve been a gripping conversation. I’ve defeated 57 Darkspawn, you know. Who was it?”

Arthur should say it was Mr Nash, or the vicar, or a mangy dog he found by the side of the road – anything but Eames, unless he wants to be teased within an inch of his life, probably even closer, because Dom doesn’t know  _when to stop_ , honestly, he doesn’t understand  _stop_  means  _stop_.

“Hmm?” Dom prompts.

“Eames,” Arthur says, trying to sound casual as he dodges a pair of boxers, and he tries not to think about how long they’ve been lying there.

“Oh  _really_?” says Dom, raising an eyebrow, “Was it now? What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“You were talking about  _nothing_  for 57 Darkspawn?”

“Yes, Dom,” Arthur says shortly, because he can’t be bothered.

He flops down on a beanbag next to his friend, having successfully navigated the Nuclear Wasteland of Dom’s room without sustaining injury.

Dom gives him a once-over before turning back to look at the TV.

“You have sex hair,” he comments.

“What?”

“Seriously. Someone’s had their hands running through that. And recently.”

Arthur tries to flatten his unruly curls, but he can’t deny that someone has indeed had their hands in his hair recently and that someone happened to be his bloody gorgeous neighbour Eames. Dom fixes him with a sceptical squint.

“Are you wearing that scarf to hide a hickey?”

“No!”

“Then why are you wearing it, you never wear scarves, something’s changed, now you’re wearing a scarf, why Arthur,  _why_?”

Arthur feels like he’s being interrogated by the Spanish Inquisition. Or at least the Fashion Police.

“It’s a fashionable accessory.”

“Hey… that’s  _Eames’_  scarf!” Dom gasps, as if he’s just had a revelation paramount to that time he discovered you can make cheese on toast by turning your toaster sideways, “It  _is_ , isn’t it?”

Arthur shuffles in the beanbag slightly.

“Er, yeah?”

Dom whistles under his breath.

“It’s  _nothing_ ,” Arthur says, exasperated, “He just gave it to me, he said I might catch cold.”

“What is he, your mother? Anyway, you’re still wearing it now. Indoors. Out of the cold. In the warm. The toasty warm indoors.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Arthur groans, tugging the scarf off.

He keeps holding it, not because he wants to stroke something that’s has been in contact with Eames’ skin or anything, but because he doesn’t want to lose it in Dom’s room, doomed to be forever crushed under Dom’s dirty underwear and old sci-fi novels, which is a fate deserved by no inanimate object.

“You don’t have to stay,” says Dom, smirking, “You can go back round his if you like, you know. Have a nice conversation about nothing. I mean, I’m fine here, I’ve got a date with a scantily-clad witch.”

“Dom,” Arthur sighs, “If there  _was_  something going on between Eames and I, I’d be on the table in his kitchen, telling him to do bad things to me, not crouching in the bacteria breeding ground that is your room, playing Xbox.”

Dom pulls a face.

“You don’t have to be so graphic.”

“You don’t have to be such a douchebag.”

Dom sticks out his tongue, elbowing Arthur in the ribs.

“You  _like_  Eames,” he says in a childish sing-song voice, “You like him  _bad_.”

“I don’t!”

Dom proceeds to poke Arthur relentlessly.

“You do, you do, you do, you  _do_ ,” he says, in between each poke.

“ _Stop_ , I don’t, well, as a  _friend_ , maybe, ow!”

Dom stops poking him.

“You want to tell a guy you like  _as a friend_  to do bad things to you on his kitchen table?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

Arthur shrugs. It sounds about right.

“What in God’s name do you want to do to  _me_?” Dom asks.

“It involves handcuffs,” Arthur says, deadpan.

Dom gives him a playful shove.

“You kinky bastard.”

He laughs, but then his face turns solemn, and he fixes Arthur with a serious squint.

“Seriously, though, he likes you.”

Arthur scoffs.

“He doesn’t.”

“Come on. He spent eleven hours cuddling you on a sofa.”

“Dom, if you mention that  _one more time_  –”

“You’ll what?”

“Tear your nipples from your chest.”

Dom looks genuinely scared.

“Firstly, how is that the first thing you thought of, that is just freaky, and secondly, you should spend some time with him.”

“Firstly, I’ve been thinking of doing that for months, that is how annoying you are, and secondly, he’s spending Christmas round mine.”

Dom blinks.

“ _He’s spending Christmas round yours?_ ”

Arthur immediately regrets saying that.

“Woah,” says Dom, “This is like, getting serious. Are you considering marriage? Or like, civil partnership or whatever?”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Well, he can’t spend Christmas round his dad’s, him and Shania will kill each other.”

Dom pulls a face.

“Fair point. It  _is_  a coupley thing to do though. You know, introducing him to your family.”

“It’s not. We’re not a couple.”

“Yet.”

“Do you want me to strangle you with the cord of your own Xbox controller?”

“You really  _are_  kinky today.”

“Right, that’s it,” Arthur says, and grabs him in a headlock.

Dom flails and screams and laughs, kicking Arthur in the stomach.

“You douchebag,” says Arthur, and laughs.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s mum is in the kitchen when he gets home, frowning as she carefully chops up a mound of courgettes. She’s wearing the cooking apron she bought for Arthur’s dad several years ago, the kind that’s covered with a picture of a man’s torso.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says when he walks in, “Have fun with Dom?”

Arthur kisses her on the cheek.

“Yeah. Er, what are you making?”

“Courgette cake.”

Arthur gives her a slightly strained smile. There’s a good reason why his dad used to do all the cooking. His mum isn’t very good at it. She has a thing about developing new recipes. Courgette cake isn’t one of her big successes. Surprisingly, beetroot and trout roulade is.

“Oh, lovely.”

She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair’s black and very long, trailing down to her waist. It’s pretty, but it’s not very practical. She managed to set it on fire when she was lighting the candles on Arthur’s (strawberry and potato flavoured) birthday cake last year, and she only realised when Yusuf very politely said “Excuse me, Mrs Marlowe-Farrell, but I believe you are on fire.”

“Mu-um?” Arthur says slowly.

“Yes?”

“Erm, well I was wondering, uh, would it maybe be OK if I brought a friend round for Christmas?”

Arthur asks the question very quickly, then looks at his mum with his best attempt at puppy eyes. He’s eighteen, but he can still pull it off. Mrs Marlowe-Farrell stops chopping the courgettes and looks at him, lips quirked in a smile.

“Is it someone nice?” she asks teasingly.

“ _Mum_ , no!”

Arthur came out to his mum two years ago. He didn’t really mean it to happen – it just sort of slipped out. The thing is, he loves his mum  _more than anyone else in the world,_ she’s been through a lot,  _they’ve_  been through a lot, and he tells her almost everything. And if that means he’s a mummy’s boy, well, he doesn’t care, he just wants to take care of his mum, that’s what his dad told him to do, and that’s what he’s going to do.

“Alright,” she says, smiling, “So who is it?”

“Eames.”

“The handsome one?”

“Yes. No. I mean, that’s a matter of opinion.”

“So what’s your opinion?”

Arthur’s opinion is that Eames is possibly the most gorgeous boy ever to walk the surface of the Earth, not that he likes him in any way, shape or form other than pure,  _completely platonic_  friendship.

“ _Mum_. He’s the guy that lives down the road. He came over a while ago and watched a film with me?”

“Oh yes. The handsome one.”

Arthur sighs.

“What? He  _is_  handsome!” his mum says, turning back to the courgettes, “Isn’t he spending Christmas with his family, though?”

“Well, his mum’s run away with another man, and he hasn’t spoken to her since, and he hates his dad’s new girlfriend, so no, probably not.”

Arthur’s mum sighs.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Poor sweetheart. He seems like such a nice young man. And very fond of you, too.”

Arthur ignores the happy twist in his stomach he gets from those words.

His mum looks up.

“So how long has this Eames been in the picture, hmm?”

“He’s not in  _any_  picture, mum.”

Arthur tries not to sound too disappointed about that, because, hey, what can he do, it’s just his luck that the incredibly handsome and genuinely lovely guy he likes will never be interested in him, isn’t that great.

“ _But_ ,” his mum says, looking at him knowingly, “You want him to be.”

Arthur blushes slightly, because is he really that obvious?

“Oh, you do,” his mum laughs, “You  _like_  him bad.”

Arthur wonders what he’s done to deserve being teased so relentlessly by various people.

“It doesn’t matter if I like him anyway,” he says huffily.

“Why’s that?”

“Because he’s straight. He used to go out with Ariadne.”

“But he’s not going out with her now, is he?”

“No,” Arthur says measuredly.

“And he’s not going out with someone else?”

“No.”

“Well then,” his mum says, matter-of-fact, “Get in there, my son.”

Arthur laughs, because who else’s mum is such a wingman? And she has a point, really she does, because there is a chance that Eames isn’t straight, and he has considered it before, but he just thought it was just his own desperation or hormones or penis telling him that, and told them all collectively to  _shut the hell up_ and to stop being so horny _all the time_. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed that his  _mum_  is giving him  _relationship advice._ What is he, a girl? (Though he’s not exactly the most manly man.)

“What is it?” asks his mum, sensing his obvious embarrassment.

“Nothing. It’s just – we’re not –  _no_  – I just – he’s just a friend. He wouldn’t be interested. Not that I would – I mean – just no.”

She nods, unconvinced.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“Yes. Very.”

He can tell that she doesn’t believe him. Her eyebrows are raised, her eyes lowered. Arthur doesn’t try to persuade her otherwise. It’s just slightly depressing that everyone is telling him to go get some as if they believe he’s capable of seducing The Sex God that is Eames, because he really,  _really_  isn’t, he’s just this geeky kid who wears glasses and got teased in school, OK, he’s quiet and shy and nerdy and  _why_  would Eames want that, what is Arthur even  _doing_ thinking he might? He sighs internally at his own failings, because he’s a teenager and that’s what they do.

“So Eames can come over?” he asks.

“Yes, of course, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, mum.”

He kisses her on the cheek again.

“Love you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s 11pm, and Arthur should probably be in bed by now, after all, his mother is, but Eames’ DVDs have been smacking against his back in his rucksack for the whole journey home, so he decides to watch one of them, because what the heck, he’s living dangerously today, isn’t he? It’s a toss-up between  _The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies_  and  _Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone._ In the end, he decides he can’t be dealing with confused undead and he kind of really  _does_  want to find out what  _the forbidden zone_  is. He opens the case of what looks like is going to be a very disappointing film, but the disc inside is blank. He shoves it into his laptop anyway. It’s probably just a blank disc Eames accidentally put in the wrong case, but it could be something interesting. Like a  _good_  film, or a collection of Eames’ music, or inappropriate photos of Eames that he was going to give to his girlfriend or something. Not that, if there were any, he’d look through them. Or touch himself. Or do anything other than respect his friend’s privacy and eject the disc straightaway. Because  _he is a good person_.

 It turns out to be photos from Eames’ camera. Arthur is  _not_  a stalker, so he is not going to look at these photos, he’s not even going to  _glance_  at them, they’re  _private_ , but well, Eames would probably just put them all on his Facebook anyway, and no-one will know if he just so happens to flick through them, will they? On this dubious moral ground, Arthur opens up the photos and looks through the various albums. They’re mostly old photos of Eames with his family, and they must be from about a year ago because his mum’s in them. Arthur only ever met Mrs Eames once, when he went round Eames’ back in year 12. He remembers thinking that she looked very sad, and not knowing why that was. He knows now. Mrs Eames was married to Mr Eames but she was having an affair with Mr Tadashi, that guy who worked at the co-op, and she didn’t love Eames’ dad but she loved Eames and she loved Mr Tadashi, and in the end she could only be with one of them and she chose Mr Tadashi. Eames hasn’t spoken to her since. (“She doesn’t love me.” “You know that’s not true.” “She  _left me_ , Arthur. Why would she leave me if she loved me? How can she love me if she can’t see me anymore?” “ _Eames_ , I – oh God, don’t cry, Eames, please, oh, just – just come here, ssh, ssh.”)

There’s pictures from last Christmas, Eames and his parents and a few odd family members, and Eames’ 17th birthday – Arthur was there. He’s in some of the photos, chatting to Eames and Ariadne and Cobb, turning away from the camera, but then there’s a few when Eames practically  _manhandled_  Arthur into shot, saying, “Darling, you look  _great_ , you shouldn’t hide that lovely face of yours away,” and Eames’ arm is around him and they’re both laughing. And Arthur’s looking at Eames with this  _face_ , it looks like he wants to braid flowers into his hair and marry him and have seventeen adopted babies with him and name them all after his favourite comic book characters, and has he always been so  _obvious_ , hasn’t Eames  _noticed_ something, oh God,  _what if_  he has, what if he  _knows_  how Arthur feels about him, not that he likes him because he doesn’t, OK, no really Dom, shut up. Arthur sighs and scrolls down. There’s only one photo album left now, and it’s all pictures of Eames’ flat. There are some from the day he moved in, Eames carrying cardboard boxes with a few mates helping him out. Arthur was there, too. Well, he only lives down the road, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do, although Dom may have kind of asked him over to play  _Fable II_ that day and he may have kind of lied about where he was. Arthur looks a bit out of place in the photos. He really doesn’t fit in with Eames’ mates. They’re hench rugby players, the type who do manly things like working out and kissing girls, and he’s a weedy nerd, the type who does geeky things like homework and kissing no-one because he’s just that hopeless, oh isn’t life great.

But then there’s this one photo. It’s one Arthur took of Eames. He’s sitting at his table, drinking tea from that awful mug that has  _World’s Sexiest Man_  written on it. (“Eames, that mug is ridiculous.” “What, do you disagree with it?” “ _No_. I mean yes. Maybe. I mean, you’ve got a lot of competition. Like Cillian Murphy.” “You like  _him_? He’d cut you with those cheekbones.” “Oh, I  _know_.” “Oi, stop it Arthur, you’re making me jealous.” “Say cheese. And do your best to look like you deserve that mug.”) So Eames is giving the camera his best smouldering look, and OK, he really  _does_  deserve that mug, just  _wow_ , Arthur really  _does_  want him to do bad things to him on his kitchen table, even if it is unhygienic. And it would be a normal photo – albeit, a pretty arousing one – it would be completely unremarkable, if it wasn’t for the freaking  _ghost_  standing next to Eames. Because. There is a ghost. Right next to him. Arthur blinks.  _What. The. Hell._  It’s pale and translucent, like a shadow but white. It’s a bit blurry, but it’s  _definitely_  a person – the arms and legs and face and hands are unmistakeable. Arthur’s mind races. It could be a trick of the light, a reflection from the window, a smudge on the camera lens, a shadow. But it’s not. He  _knows_  it isn’t. Arthur loves all things science fiction. He’s watched  _Ghost Busters_ , every series of  _Supernatural_  (Castiel’s his favourite), not to mention  _Paranormal Activity_  (that scared the life out of him and Dom and they huddled together behind a cushion watching it when they were thirteen) – he knows something paranormal when he sees it.

Arthur stares at the ghost, at the cluster of pixels on his computer screen, and gets more and more scared, because  _there is a ghost in Eames’ flat_ , and this isn’t Casper the friendly ghost, this is Casper the psychotic ghost who’s going to creep into your bedroom at night and slit your throat. It isn’t safe for Eames to be in his flat, because what if the ghost comes tonight, what if it  _kills_  him? And Arthur doesn’t want Eames to die, because, alright,  _alright_ , he  _does_  have feelings for him, and he thought it was just a silly crush, nothing serious, just ignore it, it’s not like he’s ever going to feel the same way, you idiot, they  _never_  like you back, they never do, don’t you remember how Jack Turner hit you when you said you liked him, how Dan Poole avoided you when you kissed him. But the thing is, it  _isn’t_  just a crush, he likes Eames a lot more than that. He’s maybe a little bit in love with him. Oh God, he is.

“I’m in love with a college drop-out with no money, an appalling dress sense and family problems,” Arthur says to himself, “And I’ve got to save his life from a ghost.”

He groans at how ridiculous this entire situation is, because really, you couldn’t  _write_  this stuff, rubbing his face with the heel of his hand. He looks at his bedroom clock (it’s in the shape of a TARDIS). It’s 11.21pm.

“Better get a move on then,” he says.

And he jumps out of his chair, ready to fight for the boy he loves.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur’s never snuck out of his house before. It sets him on edge. He tiptoes over the floorboards but when they creak it sounds like the agonising groans of tormented souls, seriously, they’re _that_ loud, and he nearly trips over his mum’s shoes which she conveniently left on the middle of the stairs, who leaves _anything_ there, mum, really. He thinks he can see ghosts everywhere he looks, it’s worse than after he and Dom watched _Paranormal Activity_ and they thought they could hear strange noises so they held hands for the rest of the night. Arthur doesn’t know what’s more disturbing, ghosts or the fact that he cuddled Dom Cobb. He grabs his bike and cycles to Eames’, and it’s not far but it’s dark and quiet and there’s a few chavs hanging around and he’s _scared_ , he’s really scared, but he can’t turn back and crawl into bed and hide under the covers, he _can’t,_ not when Eames is in danger. He’s living dangerously today, isn’t he?

“If you can do this, Arthur,” he says to himself, “You can do _anything_. Including Eames.”

That seems to motivate him, and he gets to Eames’ pretty fast. He ditches his bike, runs into the building and up three flights of stairs, finds Eames’ flat, number 12B, and rings the doorbell. Eames doesn’t answer.

He rings again, and again, and he’s absolutely _certain_ that the ghost really has killed him when the door opens.

“What is it?”

Eames is half-awake, topless, wearing only tracksuit bottoms, hair sticking up a bit. He looks blearily at Arthur.

“Arthur?”

Arthur takes this as a cue to grab onto him in a strange mangled sort of hug.

“Eames!”

Eames returns the hug as best he can, patting Arthur on the back.

“Sleep,” he says drowsily, “Sleep needs to happen. Sleep was happening. And now it isn’t. Why?”

Arthur pulls away, because he’s just realised he’s wrapped one of his legs around Eames’ waist and he should probably stop that now. He puts his hands on Eames’ shoulders and looks at him seriously.

“You need to leave.”

“What?”

“You need to leave your flat.”

“What?”

 _So eloquent_ , Arthur thinks, as he tugs on Eames’ hand.

“Please,” he says, “Spend the night with me.”

Eames’ eyes widen.

“ _What_?”

“Spend the night with me,” Arthur repeats, grabbing both of his hands and trying to pull him away.

“Really?” Eames says lowly, sliding his hands onto Arthur’s hips.

“ _Really_. Come home with me.”

 “Um, yes. Sex. Yes. Will happen. Not now. I’m really tired, and, yeah.”

“What?”

Eames drags Arthur closer to him, hands on the small of his back.

“Darling, I don’t – uh – I’d _love_ to, _really_ , I mean, I’ve thought about it, I’ve thought about it _a lot_ , and, yes – just _yes_ – I want to. So much. You’re so – uh – the _things_ I’d do to you, _God_. But this is a bit – kind of – sudden? Not that I’m not up for it, because I am, I am _so_ up for it, just I’m not really – uh, awake. And no lube. You want lube. You deserve the _best ever_ shag. Oh, that, that doesn’t sound too good. Sorry. You didn’t give me any warning. I’m unprepared. And tired. And – really too turned on right now. You should, like, text next time. Give us a heads-up. ‘Coming over to do you now’. That sort of thing. So I can get ready. Or at least be – um, awake.”

Eames pushes a hand into Arthur’s hair.

“’Cause, you know, we could do it all the time. Like, boyfriends. If you wanted. Would be nice. You’re nice. Like you, Arthur.”

Eames wraps his arms around him, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur blinks, trying to process what’s just happened. He stares at Eames.

“I didn’t come over to have sex with you,” he says.

“Oh. Well. That’s disappointing.”

“Really?” asks Arthur, forgetting his mission for a moment.

“Mm-hmm. I already woke up with you once. You wriggle in your sleep. Not good. Morning wood. Happened. Was awkward. Had to make tea to calm myself down.”

This is all just too much for Arthur’s brain to compute. He feels like a short-circuited android.

“We – we will discuss this further at a later date,” he says, “But really, you – you do need to get out now.”

“Darling –”

“No, Eames, you don’t understand, this place is haunted.”

“What?”

“There is a ghost in your flat.”

“ _What?_ ”

Arthur sighs, pulls away from Eames and pulls the disc out of his pocket.

“Remember when I bought those DVDs off you today? I got this. You must’ve put it in the wrong case, because it’s full of your pictures.”

“Ohh,” Eames smiles sleepily, “Was wondering where those got to. Didn’t have a chance to look at any of ‘em.”

“That’s just it! If you’d seen them, you’d know this place is dangerous. You know when you moved in here? I took a picture of you. You can see a ghost in that picture, a bloody _ghost_ , Eames, and it’s real and it’s very dangerous.”

Eames squints at him, suddenly waking up.

“Why were you looking through my pictures?”

Arthur blushes.

“They just came up on the screen, OK?”

Eames frowns thoughtfully.

“The pictures of me moving in were right at the end of that CD. You’d have to scroll through hundreds of photos to see that one.”

“I think we’re missing the point here! You have a ghost in your flat!”

“I have a stalker at my front door, and that seems like a more pressing problem to me.”

“I am _not_ a stalker!”

“Then why do you look in my window when I’m getting dressed?”

“That was an isolated incident! The point is –”

“Yes, darling,” Eames sighs, “There’s a ghost in my flat, I know, but I’m sure I’m big enough and ugly enough to take care of it on my own.”

That’s when Arthur rolls his eyes and barges in.

“Isn’t this, like, illegal?” Eames mutters, “You know, breaking and entering, that kind of thing?”

He huffs, shuts the front door, and follows Arthur, who’s stormed into his bedroom. Arthur’s sitting on the edge of Eames’ bed, laptop on his knees, face lit up by the screen in the dark room. Eames sighs and flops down next to him, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder because he can’t be bothered to support his own weight. The laptop switches on, to Eames’ desktop. His wallpaper is a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio.

“Really?” says Arthur.

“I admire his work. His interpretation of Romeo was thought-provoking. He portrayed his inner struggle, yet his inability to escape love.”

Arthur shoves the disc into the laptop.

“Why the hell did you leave college?” he says under his breath.

It’s not really a question, but Eames still says, “I don’t know. I didn’t really know why I was there. I scraped my GCSEs and I didn’t know what to do next. I’m not clever like you. A-Levels just… aren’t for me.”

“There must be something you want to do,” says Arthur, opening the file on the laptop.

“Uh-huh,” says Eames, running a hand up Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur freezes because those hands are pretty bloody distracting. Eames moves away and leans forward, rubbing his eyes.

“Uh, sorry, I shouldn’t – I just – I get like that when I’m tired.”

“It’s fine,” says Arthur, because he was enjoying that and he plans to tire Eames out sometime soon, “Really. You don’t have to stop. Uh.”

He scrolls down the photos until he reaches the ones of Eames moving into his flat (and yes, they are right at the bottom, Eames does have a point).

“K, let’s see this ghost, then,” says Eames tiredly.

 Arthur he opens the photo. And the ghost’s there, filling the screen, even more terrifying than ever.

“Holy shit,” says Eames.

He blinks at it, eyes wide.

“That’s – oh God. I was sitting right next to it. That’s – that’s awesome!”

Arthur is appalled. Eames is going to be murdered in his sleep and all he can do is be pleased about it.

“ _Eames_! Look at its face. Look at its eyes. It’s _evil_.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s not good.”

“ _Now_ do you see why you have to come back to mine tonight?”

Eames doesn’t reply.

“Arthur…” he says slowly.

“Yes?”

“Did I close the bedroom door behind me when I came in?”

“Um – no. I don’t think so. You just sat down.”

“Right, OK,” says Eames, “Because the bedroom door’s shut now.”

“ _Shit_ ,” says Arthur, and now the door’s shut the only light in the room is the laptop screen, but it’s not bright and he can’t see a thing apart from Eames sitting next to him. Eames moves and Arthur grabs his hand.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To turn the light on.”

“Don’t leave me,” he says, a little more urgently than he meant to.

“I’m walking three steps away, darling.”

“ _Don’t leave me_ ,” Arthur repeats.

He shoves the laptop onto the bed, then grabs hold of Eames’ hand again.

“OK,” says Eames, groping his way through the dark to the wall.

He feels for the lightswitch, and turns the light on. The room is flooded with light. Everything’s fine. There’s no ghosts. Just Eames’ bedroom. Arthur lets go of his hand somewhat reluctantly.

“There, that’s better,” says Eames breezily, “Nothing to worry about.”

Then they hear the sound of smashing glass in the kitchen. They freeze.

“What was that?” asks Eames.

“Maybe – something – fell over?”

“Yeah,” says Eames, though he doesn’t sound very convinced, “That’s probably it. Do you think we should – check it out?”

“Um. We probably should.”

Neither of them moves. Something else smashes.

“I think it’s knocking over my glasses,” says Eames.

“What?”

“They’re in the cupboard. I think it’s knocking them off the shelf. One by one.”

There’s another smash. Arthur subconsciously resumes his grip on Eames’ hand.

“Do you think I made it angry? Because we know it’s here?”

“The disc,” says Eames.

 Arthur loses his grip on him, as he turns to the bed and takes the disc out of the laptop. The lightbulb flickers.

“Eames,” Arthur says urgently, but the light goes out.

“Arthur, darling, where are you?”

“Here,” says Arthur, reaching out towards the space where he saw Eames last, hands reaching out, scared of what he’ll find.

“Keep talking, I’m just here.”

“OK,” Arthur manages, and he’s not far now, he _can’t_ be far, but it feels like they’re miles and mile apart.

And then something brushes against his hand, and he gasps, and he trips over something he can’t see, and he falls forward, landing flat on his face.

“Oh,” he says, trying to get up but just thrashing around, “Eames, I fell over, where are –”

And then the lightbulb flickers back into life and Arthur realises he’s lying on top of Eames, who’s sprawled on his back on his bed. He must’ve tripped and crashed right into him. Eames blinks up at him, surprised. Arthur and looks down at him, equally surprised.

“Er, sorry about that,” he says.

“S’OK,” says Eames, breathless but mostly unharmed.

Arthur pulls himself up so he’s on all fours and not pressing down on Eames.

“I’d take advantage of this,” says Eames, “But there’s an evil ghost in my flat, so.”

Arthur crawls off of Eames, pulling him to his feet.

“Why’d the light come back on?” asks Eames.

“Voyeur ghost?”

Eames chuckles as he stands up. The lightbulb flickers again.

“Quick,” says Arthur, “Give me a kiss.”

And Eames does, kisses him quickly on the lips, and the light goes out.

“It was worth a shot,” says Arthur, shrugging.

_Smash._

“Shit,” Eames breathes, “I’m going to have no glasses left at this rate. Do you have a light?”

“Um, my phone?” says Arthur, fishing his mobile out from his pocket.

It’s a Nokia, so it can only be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, but the screen’s tiny and it emits a tiny amount of light.

“Does that offer of staying at yours tonight still stand?” asks Eames.

“Yes.”

“Good. OK, we’re going to go through the kitchen to get out of the flat. Just hold onto me, we’ll be as quick as we can, OK?”

Arthur holds onto Eames tightly, and Eames puts an arm round his waist. So, shuffling and stumbling, they make their way out of the bedroom, Arthur holding out his phone to light the way. It’s like Frodo using the light of Elendil to escape Shelob’s lair, only this is a more homoerotic (though to be fair, Arthur could write essays about Frodo and Sam’s epic gay love). Eames opens the bedroom door and they shuffle into the kitchen. Something smashes again. Arthur holds up his phone, and there’s the cupboard, door open, with a few glasses inside. They stare, half-expecting the glasses to move. They don’t. There’s a noise from the front room, and they jump.

“Oh, ah, _shit_!” Eames cries, breaking away from Arthur.

“What? What is it?”

“Shit.”

“Are you hurt? Are you OK?” Arthur asks quickly.

Eames sucks in his breath.

“My feet,” he says, “Broken glass.”

With his mobile, Arthur can make out hundreds of pieces of shattered glass on the floor, streaked with Eames’ blood, and he feels sick, because the ghost _knew_ , it _knew_ Eames was barefoot, and it _planned_ this, but there’s no time to look at Eames’ feet because there’s that noise from the front room, a low, scraping sound.

“Oh,” Eames whispers, “I think it’s moving the table.”

Arthur holds up his phone and he can see it then, the table that’s been dragged away from its usual place, the chairs scattered haphazardly around it. And Arthur realises what the ghost is doing, what it’s been trying to do all this time, and _God_ , does that scare him.

“It’s going to block the front door,” says Arthur.

“What?”

“It’s dragging the table to block the front door. It’s shutting us in.”

Because that’s it. Arthur came to get Eames out of the flat, but the ghost doesn’t want Eames to leave.

“Now listen,” Arthur says, steeling himself, “I know that I’m just this geeky kid who wears glasses and got teased in school, OK, and I’m quiet and shy and nerdy, but you can just _shove off_ because _I love Eames_ and I am _taking him home_.”

And with that, Arthur stands up straight, grabs Eames’ hand, says, “Come on,” and pulls him firmly towards the front door. Arthur yanks the front door open, scrabbling with the lock with one hand, and strides out of the flat, Eames limping behind him. Arthur slams the door shut and drags Eames down the three flights of stairs, outside, and onto his bike.

“I’ll pedal, you hold on, OK?” Arthur says, and Eames awkwardly gets on the bike behind Arthur, trying not to put any weight on his bleeding feet, and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist. Arthur pedals hard, because he’s scared, even if Eames is heavy, and the chavs hanging around give them odd looks, but it’s not far, and eventually Arthur gets home, panting. He lets the bike slip slowly to one side on the grass outside the house, and they lie there, on the damp grass, breathing, Eames holding Arthur close.

“Did you mean it,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s neck, “When you said you love me?”

“Did you mean it, when you said we could be boyfriends?”

Eames kisses Arthur’s neck.

“If you wanted?”

Arthur rolls over and kisses Eames, soft and slow.

“Does that answer your questions?” he asks.

Eames smiles.

“Yeah, I reckon so.”


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur’s spent his whole life believing that the geeky kid who wears glasses and got teased in school will never get possibly the most gorgeous boy ever to walk the surface of the Earth. He’s now reconsidering that view. This is due to the undeniable if improbable fact that he’s currently in his garden in the early hours of the morning, making out with Eames on the grass. He’s pretty sure he could do this for _days_ , just kissing him, even though it’s pretty impractical and at some point he’d probably have something else to do, like having lunch or going to the toilet. Basically, it’s pretty fucking fantastic. Even if the circumstances are a little unusual.

“Arthur, darling,” says Eames, after Arthur has assaulted him with enthusiastic kisses that are both clumsy and completely adorable, “You are singularly gorgeous and I fully intend to demonstrate that fact to you in a number of inventive ways over the course of the next few days.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

“But it’s cold and dark and the middle of winter and we’ve just run away from my haunted flat and there’s a bike on top of us and I’ve not got a shirt on and my feet really are bleeding quite badly, so if you’d be so kind as to get us inside your house, I would be much obliged to you.”

Arthur smiles and kisses him again, just because he can, and because he’s started kissing Eames now and he never intends to stop. In terms of _Star Wars_ , he feels like his love for Eames is vaster than the Rakata’s infinite empire of five hundred worlds, and strikes him as dumb as a Polis Massan.

“Point taken,” he says, deciding not to divulge his geeky metaphors to Eames quite yet, and gets up, leaning the bike against the fence and helping Eames to his feet.

“ _Shit_ ,” Eames swears, wincing as he stands up, leaning heavily on Arthur, even though Arthur’s a skinny little thing and Eames is considerably bulkier than him.

Arthur has a sudden and inappropriate thought due to this reflection on Eames’ weight (namely ‘I wonder what that would feel like on top of me?’), but he tries to suppress that particular mental image as he drags Eames towards the back door. He doesn’t manage it, even though he tells himself he’ll find out soon enough, because well, it’s quite distracting. Then he feels Eames’ hand down his jeans and he jerks back to reality pretty quickly.

“ _Eames_!”

“What?” says Eames, the picture of innocence, “I was just looking for your house key. Honestly, Arthur, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“ _Ri-ight_ ,” says Arthur, then, “Oh.”

“What?”

“House key.”

“You _didn’t_.”

“I did.”

“Numpty.”

“Oh, _excuse me_ , Eames, in between being _wracked with fear_ that you had been murdered in your sleep by a psychotic ghost, and then, rather bravely, might I add, ventured out to save you from said ghost who did actually turn out to be a fucking psycho, I didn’t have time to think about my house key!”

Eames smiles and kisses him quickly, as if he finds Arthur’s outburst especially endearing. (I can tell you, he does.)

“You were very brave, darling,” he says calmingly, “If lacking somewhat in foresight. Is there any other way into your house?”

“Well…”

Which is how Arthur ends up halfway through the tiny kitchen window his mum left open, trying to get his foot on the windowsill to lever himself inside as quietly as possible.

“I’m going to need a little help here,” he whispers urgently, scrabbling at the kitchen counter for purchase.

“Certainly,” says Eames, and pushes Arthur up, hands on his backside.

“Is it really necessary to grope my arse?”

“Completely.”

Eames shoves Arthur inside, and he scrambles and lands on the kitchen counter.

“You weigh nothing, you know,” says Eames, who now has a brilliant view of Arthur’s arse and is definitely not staring at it.

“Oh Eames, you’re so strong,” says Arthur, pushing himself off the counter to turn on the light and open the back door for Eames.

Eames stumbles in, swearing creatively under his breath the whole way.

“Shut up and sit down,” says Arthur, getting the first aid kit from the cupboard under the sink.

“Yes, Nurse.”

Eames pulls himself up onto the kitchen counter and Arthur takes hold of one of his feet to examine.

“Is it bad?” asks Eames.

Arthur looks at the bloodied mess that is the sole of Eames’ left foot, studded with shards of glass. He’s not as inept as Zoidberg, but he’s no expert. All he knows is it doesn’t look good.

“Pretty bad,” he says.

“How bad?”

Arthur looks up at Eames, his eyes serious.

“I think we’ll have to amputate.”

Eames half-laughs, voice choked.

“Fuck off.”

“No. Hold still.”

Arthur fishes out a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit and starts to work on removing the pieces of glass from Eames’ feet. Eames sucks in his breath and swears quietly, and Arthur says, “My brave baby,” and yanks a shard of glass out of Eames’ foot.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Eames breathes.

Arthur presses a kiss to Eames’ ankle, and starts on the right foot.

“Oh, Arthur,” says Eames.

“What?”

“You’re just so – I never thought this would happen.”

“Yeah, I never imagined I’d ever get chased by a fucking psychotic ghost either.”

“No, I mean _us_. I never thought you’d, you know, want me.”

Arthur smiles quietly.

“I want you alright.”

Eames smiles, but then Arthur yanks another bit of glass out of his foot.

“ _Fuck_ , agh – but I’ve wanted you for longer.”

“I don’t think you have.”

“Why? When did you start fancying me?”

Arthur looks up steadily.

“When I accidentally crashed into you on the first day of college.”

Eames’ face falls into something soft.

“Arthur…” he says slowly, reaching out to touch him.

Arthur chooses that moment to pull out the last (frankly, huge) piece of glass.

“Oh, _shit_.”

“What about you?” Arthur asks, quietly, grabbing the gauze from the first aid kit and starting to bandage Eames’ feet, focusing on his task like the question doesn’t really matter.

(Of course, it does.)

“Er, the same.”

“What?”

“I liked you the minute you crashed into me. Even if you did partially maim me. It was like that was where you belonged.”

“On top of you?”

Eames shrugs.

“If that’s the way you want it.”

Arthur can’t quite hide his smile as he finishes bandaging Eames’ feet.

“But you _did_ date Ari,” he says, putting the first aid kit away, “You can’t have fancied me that much when you went out with her.”

“I did. I was kind of – trying to get over you. Didn’t really work.”

“I thought you guys were pretty tight.”

“No. We didn’t even – no.”

Arthur’s eyes widen and he looks at him seriously.

“Are you a virgin?”

Eames laughs nervously and looks down.

“Arthur, really –”

“Are you?”

“Darling –”

“You _are_?!”

Arthur practically _giggles_.

“Don’t laugh!” says Eames, hiding his face in his hands.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Arthur, still laughing.

He steps into the space between Eames’ knees and puts his hands on his waist.

“It’s just, I always thought you’d be way more experienced than me, and I was kind of scared for a moment there that I wouldn’t, you know, know what to do or whatever, but you’re actually –”

“Shut up,” says Eames, and kisses him.

He holds him close in his arms and puts his legs around him as well, pulling him as close to him as he can, holding all of Arthur, bundled up with Eames around him, and kissing him like he hasn’t got any time left to do it.

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur breathes, surprised and pleased and _please don’t stop_.

Eames kisses him again.

“I am too,” says Arthur, “Which is probably pretty obvious because I’m awkward and nerdy and –”

Eames puts a finger to Arthur’s lips.

“You’re perfect.”

Arthur smiles shyly because Eames is looking at him so honestly, like he’s been split wide open and all that’s inside is how much he loves Arthur. It makes his stomach do funny things.

“Darling,” says Eames, leaning in to whisper into Arthur’s ear, “You do realise this means we could have spent all of college boning madly?”

“Looks like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Arthur smiles and wraps his arms around Eames and kisses him slowly, because it’s taken them this long but they have time now, they have all the time in the world.

“ _Arthur_?”

Arthur jumps and turns to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway with a cricket bat, eyes wide. _Awkward_ doesn’t quite cover it.

“Mum!”

“Arthur!”

“Mum…”

“Eames!”  Eames cries.

Arthur and his mum stop and look at him.

“Sorry,” he says, “I thought I should join in.”

“What was that you said about Eames not being interested in you?” asks Mrs Marlowe-Farrell, giving her son a _fuck you for lying to me_ look.

“It’s not how it looks,” Arthur says hurriedly, “There were DVDs and a ghost and Eames’ feet and –”

“Darling, I think this is one of those instances where the truth is less believable than just what it looks like,” Eames says quietly, cutting Arthur off.

He holds out a hand towards Arthur’s mother.

“I believe we’ve already met,” he says, putting on his best charming smile that all his elderly relatives adore, “But I’m Eames, your son’s boyfriend.”

“Eames,” says Arthur warningly, blushing profusely at the word _boyfriend_ in Eames’ mouth. (To be fair that’s not the only thing he’d blush at being in Eames’ mouth.) Arthur really _does_ need to get his mind out of the gutter.

“Um, good to meet you again,” says Mrs Marlowe-Farrell, shaking Eames’ hand, “I don’t know why Arthur didn’t tell me about you sooner.”

“Oh, that was my fault, Mrs Marlowe-Farrell,” says Eames, “This only happened recently. I asked Arthur to keep it on the down low. My family’s not quite so understanding, and, well, we haven’t been getting on so well recently. I didn’t want to upset them any more.”

“Call me Tania,” Arthur’s mum insists, “I do understand, love. Even I was a little surprised when Arthur came out to me. Though that was more because he’d just had his wisdom teeth out and he was so drugged-up he declared his sexuality to the whole waiting room.”

Eames laughs.

“Really?” he asks Arthur.

“It isn’t funny!”

“It kind of is.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re _adorable_.”

Arthur can’t stop himself from biting his lip and looking at his feet at that, because Eames is gorgeous and he thinks Arthur is gorgeous and Arthur will never get over that.

“Er, can I ask a very big favour?” Eames asks Mrs Marlowe-Farrell, “Can I stay here tonight? I’ll sleep on the couch, I won’t be any trouble, I swear.”

Arthur’s mum sets her mouth in a hard line, but she says, “Well, I suppose I can’t send you off in the middle of the night. Alright.”

“Thank you,” says Eames.

So Eames is installed on the couch and Arthur’s mum gives Arthur a disapproving look and says “We’ll talk about this later,” before sending him off to bed and Arthur waits until he can hear her snoring before he sneaks downstairs and climbs onto the couch to snuggle up to Eames.

“We seem to be making a habit of cuddling on the sofa,” says Eames, pulling the blankets over them both.

“’S a good habit,” mumbles Arthur, resting his head on Eames’ chest.

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Night.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur wakes up early the next morning with Eames saying, “Morning beautiful,” and giving him a mug of tea. Arthur wraps his hands around the mug and Eames kisses him lightly and Arthur decides he should begin all mornings like this.

“That your mug?” Eames asks.

“Hmm? Oh no,” says Arthur, looking down at the _World’s Cleverest Man_ mug he’s holding, “It’s dad’s.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, it’s OK. I like having his stuff around. Makes sure I don’t forget him.”

“Do you miss him a lot?”

“Yeah. But not as much as I did. It’s been, what, two and a half years now? Yeah, about that, he died while I was sitting my GCSEs. But we had a long time to mourn – I mean, we knew he was ill, he told us soon as the doctor said. So, no, it’s not too bad.”

Eames smiles sadly and takes a sip of his tea.

“Do you miss your mum a lot?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah.”

Eames looks down, says, “I was just so angry at her at first. But then, when she didn’t come back, I was just – _sad_. Because why wouldn’t she want to see me? Talk to me, even just _write_? It’s been a year and she’s never tried – never…”

“It’s OK,” says Arthur, nearly spilling tea everywhere as he crawls over to pull Eames into a hug, “Ssh, it’s OK.”

He pulls back, looks at Eames.

“We should talk to your dad. I know you don’t get on, but maybe he knows something, maybe he knows more than you do. Maybe he knows where your mum is.”

Eames shrugs.

“Maybe, yeah. If he’ll even talk to me.”

“Hey, it’s Christmas. Season of goodwill. I’m sure we can persuade him.”

“We?”

“Well, if you want me to come with you, that is. I mean, that’s fine if you don’t, it’s none of my business, but the offer’s there if –”

“Thank you. Yes. I’d like to have you there to hold my hand.”

Arthur smiles, kisses him.

“Although,” says Eames, “We should probably sort out the whole psychotic ghost in my flat issue first.”

Arthur nods.

“I know just who to call.”

“Ghostbusters?”

“No!”

“118?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

 

* * *

 

“ _If_ you are here to lament your love life or lack thereof, I am paying you no attention,” says Dom, wired into his computer, headphones on, “It’s your own fault for not manning up and banging Eames already. Go deal with your sexual tension elsewhere, I’m busy building a Mayan temple on _Minecraft_.”

“Dom, I –” says Arthur helplessly, navigating his way across Dom’s bombsite of a room.

“I know you’ve got this whole shy nerdy thing but you really just need to get your shit together and get on him already.”

Arthur reaches Dom and rips off his headphones unceremoniously.

“What was that for?” Dom demands.

Eames, standing in the doorway, clears his throat and gives Dom an awkward half-wave. Dom shoots Arthur a questioning squint, and begins an intense whispered conversation that, in all likelihood, Eames can probably hear anyway.

“What’s _he_ doing here?”

“He needs your help.”

“Why should I help the guy who’s made you act like a lovesick teenage girl for the last, like, seven years?”

“I only met him a year and a half ago.”

“Semantics.”

“Please. This is important.”

Dom looks across the Nuclear Wasteland to Eames.

“Why is he wearing your t-shirt?”

“Who says it’s my t-shirt?”

“It’s about ten sizes too small for Eames and it explains the rules for _rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock_. I think it’s yours.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He’s had to lend Eames some clothes this morning, seeing as he came round wearing only tracksuit bottoms. They managed to make a quick getaway, before Mrs Marlowe-Farrell could wake up and have that talk with Arthur about letting his boyfriend in at one in the morning to make out in the kitchen. Arthur’s left a note to say he’s gone round Dom’s, though he doesn’t really expect his mum to believe it. She probably thinks he’s having terribly unsafe unprotected sex with his boyfriend right now. Arthur only wishes that were true. (Well, the sex bit. Not the unprotected bit. Because safe sex is great sex, kids.)

“OK, well he might have possibly spent last night at mine.”

“ _What_?! Wait, what – what happened? I need to know everything! _Everything_!”

“I really can’t –”

“ _Everything_!”

Eames clears his throat again.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” says Arthur, “Stay.”

“Excuse me, whose room is this?” says Dom.

“It’s not a room, it’s a health and safety hazard!” says Arthur.

“Dom,” says Eames, picking his way towards the boys, “Please hear me out. I really need some help, and Arthur says you’re the best person to ask for that.”

Dom narrows his eyes at Eames.

“What do you need help with?”

“A ghost.”

“What?”

“You know, those scary dead people that haunt you?” says Arthur, unhelpfully.

“There’s a ghost in my flat,” says Eames, more helpfully, “It – well, it kind of attacked us last night. And I need you to help me get rid of it.”

“What were you two _doing_ last night?” Dom asks Arthur.

“Nearly getting killed by a ghost,” Arthur says, arms crossed.

“So if you do know anything about how to deal with ghosts, I’d be very grateful,” says Eames.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” says Dom, “ _Supernatural_ is my middle name.”

“No, it’s actually Stuart,” says Arthur.

Dom hits him, then turns to Eames, steepling his fingers.

“Tell me everything you know about this ghost.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Well,” says Dom, chewing on the end of his pen, “I’m thinking exorcism might work but I don’t really think we’ll be able to get the priest. I mean, we’re teenagers, I’m loosely C of E, and you’re gay, so we haven’t got much chance with the Catholics. Plus it’s Christmas so they’re probably all booked out anyway.”

“True enough,” says Arthur.

“Okay, so exorcism’s off the cards, what are the other options?” says Eames, who probably never expected to say that sentence.

They’re all sitting on Dom’s bed – or rather, the messy heap of stuff on Dom’s bed. (Dom got pretty angry when Arthur sat on a CD and broke it, but as Eames pointed out it was a James Blunt album and therefore no great loss, so stop bitching.) Dom looks down at his notebook, where he’s written down everything Arthur and Eames have told him about their close encounter last night. (With the ghost, not each other. Although that was a close encounter of _another_ kind altogether…) Dom takes the pen out of his mouth.

“What I think,” he says, gesturing with his pen, “Is at the heart of this case –”

“Case?” says Arthur, “What are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Quiet, Watson,” says Dom.

“Arthur can’t be your Watson,” says Eames, “He’s gay for me, not you.”

Arthur blushes, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Watson did marry a few women, you know.”

“Beards,” says Eames, running a finger up Arthur’s arm.

“Excuse me,” says Dom, “We are defeating a ghost here, not discussing historical fictional characters!”

He gives his friends a stern squint.

“ _As I was saying_ , what I think is at the heart of this case is why the ghost became active last night. It’s obviously been in your flat for a while now, making no problems at all. Something must have changed last night.”

“Maybe because we’d found out it was there?” Arthur suggests.

“That makes sense,” says Eames, “It didn’t want us to leave. It was like it didn’t want anyone else to find out about it.”

Dom shakes his head.

“Ghosts aren’t all that powerful. They’re only people, and dead ones at that. It wouldn’t be able to keep you there for long, and it knew that. It could only stall you.”

“But why?” asks Arthur.

“I don’t know. Maybe it wanted to tell you something.”

“What could it have to say?” says Eames, “It’s not like it couldn’t have said something before. I’ve been living there for months, and it’s never tried to talk to me.”

He sounds almost offended that the ghost hasn’t had the courtesy to speak to him yet. That might sound silly, but let me tell you, in England, etiquette is expected to be upheld by everyone, even the dead.

“I don’t know!” says Dom, “But yesterday, _something_ happened, _something_ changed. And that’s why the ghost felt like it had to say something now. What was it?”

Eames and Arthur look blank.

“Come on, _think_ ,” says Dom, “What did you do yesterday?”

“Um,” Eames begins, “I had a shower, had some Cheerios…”

“And then?”

“I called my fucking bitch of a landlord because the radiator _still_ doesn’t work, I mean how hard can it be to heat your flat, even the Romans could do that –”

“Moving on,” says Dom, “What else did you do?”

“Well I spent most of the day having a garage sale.”

“And the stuff you sold,” says Dom, “Was it all yours?”

“No. There was some other stuff, it just came with the flat.”

“Like those romance novels,” says Arthur.

“And that all belonged to whoever lived in the flat before you?” says Dom.

“Well… Some of the romance novels are mine.”

Arthur laughs.

“Really?”

Eames winces.

“I have a thing for period romance. Mostly Austen.”

“Oh, I prefer the Brontës,” says Arthur, smiling dreamily, “ _Wuthering Heights_ has me in tears every time. Oh, Heathcliff.”

“I was always more of a Mr Darcy fan myself,” says Eames, tucking Arthur’s hair behind his ear, “You know, quiet, earnest, intelligent, seemingly unattainable.”

Arthur grins.

“I’ve always loved Heathcliff. Unrestrained, passionate, a bit on the bad side…”

Eames nods, smirking slightly.

“What did I say about discussing historical fictional characters?” Dom cries, “This is an investigation into the supernatural, not a bloody book group!”

Arthur and Eames jump apart, and remember why everyone calls Dom a douchebag.

“Just – _please_ ,” says Dom, “A little focus here. Arthur, stop undressing Eames with your eyes. It looks like you want to _eat_ him, it’s rather distressing.”

Arthur tears his eyes away from Eames and looks down at his hands. It’s really not his fault that his boyfriend is as beautiful as a Pylat bird from the planet of Neimoidia. Oh God, _boyfriend_. Eames is his _boyfriend_. Somewhere inside Arthur is a happy little gay man doing a happy little gay dance. Actually, stuff it, when he gets home he’s going to dance around his room and be that man. Eames leans over and whispers in Arthur’s ear, “You can eat me, if you like.”

Arthur blushes and giggles because he is actually a twelve-year-old girl. Dom squints at him and Eames.

“What _did_ happen last night? I know _something_ happened between you two. The sexual tension in the air practically _triples_ when Eames is around.”

“Saying that the sexual tension triples implies there’s some there when Eames isn’t around,” says Arthur, looking somewhat concerned.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dom says quickly, “Eames, what did you sell that wasn’t yours? There might have been something special in there that the ghost wants back.”

Eames shrugs.

“There wasn’t much. Just some books, an ugly old vase, some equally ugly bits of crockery.”

“You’re rubbish,” says Dom.

“Oh, there was that antique portrait of a beautiful young woman I found shoved down the back of the wardrobe,” says Eames, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Really?” says Dom, excited.

Eames rolls his eyes.

“ _No_ , you dim bint.”

“Arthur, the object of your desire is a twat,” says Dom.

“Arthur, your best friend is a twat,” says Eames, “Wait, I’m an _object of desire_?”

“What, no,” Arthur says quickly, “I don’t desire you, I never told Dom I _desired_ you, those are Dom’s words, not mine, no.”

“Oh,” Eames says shortly, “Don’t you want to be my boyfriend?”

Arthur practically _flings_ himself onto Eames.

“No, no, no, no, no, I do, I do, I don’t know what I’m saying, just, ssh, oh, please love me.”

Eames laughs, puts his hands on Arthur’s hips because it turns out Arthur is full-on straddling him.

“I do,” he says.

Dom makes a retching noise.

“Fuck off, Dom,” says Arthur.

“If you think I’m going to give you two _alone time_ in my bedroom, you are sincerely mistaken.”

“How could we even _have_ alone time in your bedroom?” says Eames, gesturing around the room, “There aren’t _any_ flat surfaces. Well, except maybe the walls.”

“Ugh, I _really_ didn’t need that mental image,” says Dom.

“I kind of did,” says Arthur.

Eames grins wickedly.

“Oh my _God_!” says Dom, “ _Please_ , guys. Let’s just think about the ghost here, not how much you want to get into each other’s pants.”

Arthur goes to crawl off Eames, but he holds him there, thumbs rubbing against Arthur’s hipbones. Arthur calculates that he’s about a minute away from getting a boner.

“So, Dom,” says Eames, casually, like he doesn’t have a blushing Arthur on top of him, “What’s your plan of action?”

“We go back to the flat and ask the ghost what it wants.”

Eames groans, leaning back against the wall. Arthur follows him, his head on Eames’ chest.

“I’m going to die,” says Eames.

Dom shrugs.

“Eh, no great loss,” he says.

He gets up, picking his way out of the room.

“I’m going to get necessary supplies,” he says, “I will be back in _five_ minutes. And may God have mercy on you if I find semen on my bedsheets! Because I won’t.”

He gives them a stern squint before flouncing out of the room.

Eames waits five seconds. Then says, “Do you have a boner?”

Arthur groans, burying his face in Eames’ chest.

“Er. Yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t _apologise_ ,” says Eames, his hands wandering down to Arthur’s arse.

“ _Eames_. Stop.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not come in my pants in my best friend’s bedroom,” Arthur says, but he’s arching into Eames’ touch, rutting against Eames’ leg.

“Darling. Your mind is telling you no but your body is telling you yes.”

“Do _not_ ,” says Arthur, “Quote Bump ‘N’ Grind at me.”

“I’ll quote what I like at you. You’re going to come all the same.”

Arthur probably shouldn’t find that as sexy as he does.

“Oh, fuck you,” he says, and comes in his pants in his best friend’s bedroom, even if, as he’s previously mentioned, he’d rather not.

“Maybe later,” says Eames, and pulls him up for a kiss.

Arthur kisses him back and thinks about how he and his boyfriend have an alliance as perfect as the Seaton and Crane partnership and DuQuesne and his minions becomes at the end of the _Skylark_ series. (Yeah, that metaphor’s a bit strained, even for Arthur.)

 

* * *

 

So they bravely venture back to Eames’ flat. Well, _venture_ is a strong verb. Eames is limping, and leaning on Arthur, either because his feet really hurt, or, more likely, because he wants an excuse to put his arm round Arthur’s waist. Dom is struggling along with a heavy rucksack, which he says contains ‘ghost-hunting essentials’, and Arthur says contains ‘a video camera and some salt’. Arthur may or may not be walking awkwardly because he jizzed in his pants some minutes ago.

“OK,” Dom says, as they stand outside the door of Eames’ flat, and inexplicably puts on a pair of goggles, “Ready?”

Arthur and Eames look questioningly at the goggles.

“For the ectoplasm,” says Dom.

“Oh, _of course_ ,” says Eames sarcastically, “I do so hate it when I get that stuff in my face.”

“I said ectoplasm, not jizz.”

“Oh no. I’d like getting _that_ in my face.”

Arthur blushes. Dom gives Eames a look.

“Just give me the fucking key.”

Eames rolls his eyes and hands them over.

“Thank you,” Dom says curtly, putting the key in the lock and turning it.

“Before we die…” says Eames, then pulls Arthur close and kisses him.

“Are you ready? Guys?” says Dom.

He turns around, seeing that his ghost-hunting comrades are more interested in snogging one another senseless than actually doing their job as ghost-hunters.

“Oh,” he says, “ _Oh_.”

Eames keeps kissing Arthur regardless, and Arthur can’t really think of any good reason to stop him. Dom crosses his arms and looks at them disapprovingly, sighing.

“Any time today.”

They break apart, Arthur looking incredibly embarrassed, Eames looking incredibly smug. Arthur looks at his feet. Eames looks at the kitchen plunger in Dom’s hand.

“For the ectoplasm,” Dom sighs.

He turns back towards the door, bracing his hands against it. Eames takes Arthur’s hand. Arthur feels like he, Dom and Eames are Chewbacca, Han Solo and Princess Leia (though not in that order).

“Let’s kick some ass!” Dom cries, and kicks the door open.

“Oh _great_ ,” says Eames, “My landlord’s _really_ going to hate me now.”

Dom rushes in, brandishing his kitchen plunger.

“I always wanted to do that,” he says, grinning.

Eames and Arthur follow him inside.

“We – mean – no – harm!” Dom says, very loudly and slowly, to no-one in particular, “We – come – in – peace. Do – you – understand?”

“It’s dead, Dom, not stupid,” says Eames.

“Can – you – hear – me?” Dom booms.

The front door swings shut behind them.

“Shit’s about to go down,” says Dom, reaching into his rucksack and pulling out a video camera and a salt shaker. He turns on the camera and draws a circle on the floor with the salt.

“This is like a low-budget version of _Art Attack_ ,” says Eames.

“We’ll be safe in here,” says Dom, stepping inside the circle, “Come in.”

Arthur and Eames do as he says, but the circle’s too small for all three of them and Eames ends up half-outside it.

“It’s too small,” he says, “I can’t fit.”

“That’s not the first time Arthur’s heard you say that,” Dom mutters under his breath.

Arthur pulls Eames into the circle. There’s not a lot of space so they end up wound around each other.

“Well, _hello_ ,” says Eames, his arms around Arthur, “Come here often?”

Arthur smiles and opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Dom calls out, “Please! Tell – us – what – you – want!”

Dead silence. Then a chair in the dining room crashes to the floor.

“Stop making it damage the furniture!” says Eames, “It’s messed up the flat enough already!”

“Oh yes, because you’re _so_ houseproud,” says Dom.

“Pot, meet kettle,” says Arthur.

Another chair hits the floor, making them all jump.

“We – just – want – to – help,” says Dom, sweeping his video camera across the room.

Then there’s the sound of the kitchen taps being turned on, gushing into the sink, then the drip-drip-drip as the water spills out, onto the floor.

“Well, at least we came prepared for plumbing difficulties,” says Eames, nodding towards Dom’s plunger.

A low, insistent hiss emanates from the kitchen.

“I think it turned the gas on,” Arthur squeaks.

“That could _really_ mess up the flat,” says Eames.

“Then turn it off!” cries Dom, shoving Eames out of the circle.

Arthur drags him back in.

“The ghost’s out there! It could be dangerous!”

“More dangerous than running gas?” says Dom.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” says Eames, limping over towards the kitchen.

“I’m coming with you,” says Arthur, running after him and threading his arm through Eames’.

“I bet you are,” says Dom.

Arthur helps Eames over to the kitchen, while Dom bravely stays inside the circle and films them. The kitchen smells of gas. The shards of glass from the night before are scattered across the floor, painted with Eames’ blood, and they’re careful to step around them.

“What can you see?” Dom calls from the living room.

“My kitchen?” Eames says unhelpfully, as he switches off the gas.

“Apart from that, genius.”

Arthur goes to the sink and leans over to turn the tap off.

“Well, I _have_ got a rather good view of Arthur’s arse from here.”

“ _Eames_!” Arthur and Dom cry in unison.

“What?” says Eames, grinning.

Arthur blushes and straightens up, avoiding Eames’ eyes, because his face is as red as a Conjeni, albeit less starfish-shaped. (I’m just as lost on that one as you are.)

“I meant can you see something to do with the _ghost_ ,” Dom says testily.

Arthur jumps a little as the fridge door swings open gently, nearly hitting the side of his head. He shuts it instinctively. And then he stares at the fridge door. And stares.

“Oh really?” says Eames sarcastically, “Well, maybe if you wanted to find that out, you could come over here and look for the bloody thing yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, if I knew you were completely incapable of doing _anything_ without being distracted by Arthur, I wouldn’t have even _asked_ you to do this!”

 “Are you alright, Arthur?” asks Eames, finally noticing that he’s just staring at the fridge.

“Um,” Arthur says, in a quiet voice, “I think – I think you should see this.”

Eames steps closer and follows Arthur’s eyes to the fridge door.

“Well, _shit_ ,” he says.

There, on the fridge door, among the haphazard photos – Arthur, Eames and Yusuf grimacing slightly as they eat Arthur’s strawberry and potato birthday cake, Eames and his mates from Theatre Studies mucking about with some props after class, Eames and his mother, not long before she left – are the magnetic letters, which Arthur rearranged to spell _specificity_ after Eames spelt it wrong on an essay months ago, all moved out of place. Now they say something else. Now they say _return my ashes_.

“Now that’s just fucking creepy,” says Eames.

“What is it?” cries Dom, rushing over.

He sees the fridge door and his face turns onto an approximation of the :O emoticon.

“Holy fucking titwank!” he yells.

He points at the magnet message, his arms flailing around like a really freaked-out Hulk. (Or Hulkling – Dom’s not exactly that buff. Hulkling’s one of Arthur’s favourite superheroes, though. He made Arthur feel better when he was younger, because if a superhero is gay, it doesn’t matter if you are. You can save the world _and_ kiss boys. Result.)

“That’s it!” Dom cries, “The ghost’s ashes! That’s what you sold at the garage sale! That’s what the ghost wants back!”

Eames raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t exactly remember selling the remains of a dead man.”

“Maybe they were in an urn,” says Dom.

“There was one on the table,” says Arthur, “I thought it was a vase, but – it could have been an urn. I remember seeing it yesterday morning. You know, the ugly black thing.”

“That was an _urn_?” says Eames.

He pulls a face.

“I _may_ have stubbed a few cigarettes out in there.”

There is a sudden smash as a glass from the cupboard falls onto the floor.

“Aw, now I’ve only got one glass!” Eames moans.

The last glass in the cupboard wobbles slightly.

“No you don’t,” says Eames, grabbing the glass and cradling it in his arms.

“So who bought the urn?” asks Dom.

“Some old guy,” says Eames, running a hand through his hair.

“What was he like?”

“I don’t know. He was bald, called me ‘son’?”

“Well done, Eames. You’ve just described every old guy in the country.”

“No, wait, he said his name. It was, I don’t know, it was an old-fashioned profession?”

“Archer?” guesses Arthur, “Baker? Butcher?”

“House?” says Dom.

“ _House_ isn’t a profession,” Eames says slowly.

“It is on that show with Hugh Laurie!”

“Dr House is a _doctor_ ,” says Arthur, “Not a house!”

“Fischer!” Eames cries, snapping his fingers, “His name was Fischer!”

“Oh, great,” says Dom, “We’re looking for an old guy called Fischer living somewhere around here.”

“Well, he can’t live far away,” says Eames, “He wasn’t exactly going at a rate of knots.”

“He might be at the old folks’ home,” Arthur suggests.

Dom shrugs.

“It’s worth a look.”

“What are we going to say to them, though?” asks Eames, “‘Excuse us, but is Mr Fischer in? We need him to return the ashes of the dead dude who lives in my flat.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Dom, “I can think of something far more subtle.” 


	6. Chapter 6

“So you’re his grandsons?” says the receptionist at Hartley Care Home, peering at Arthur, Eames and Dom over her glasses like a sterner and less attractive version of the Tenth Doctor.

They’re all standing in the (rather grim) reception – well, Dom and Arthur are, Eames is in a wheelchair. He spotted a few of them at the front and looked at them hopefully until Arthur relented and let him use one. His feet really are in a sorry state, and Arthur _did_ come in his pants earlier by humping Eames’ leg. He kind of owed it to him.

“Er, yes?” says Dom vaguely, “I did just say that, didn’t I. Well, it’s too late to change that now. So, yes, yeah, we are.”

“You don’t look very alike,” says the receptionist, looking between the three boys.

She frowns, pointing at Arthur.

“Well, you look a _little_ bit like him, with the dark eyes. But you two don’t at all.”

“I take after our mother,” says Eames.

“And him?” says the receptionist, pointing at Dom.

“Adopted,” says Arthur.

The receptionist nods, though she doesn’t look entirely convinced. (You can’t really blame her.)

“To be honest, I’m just surprised that Mr Fischer has any relatives at all. He mentioned a son, but nothing more. No-one’s come to visit him, and he’s been here six months.”

“We’ve only just moved into the area,” says Dom.

“Oh really? Where are you from?”

“Y – er – Yorkshire?”

Arthur and Eames both give Dom a Dominick-Cobb-what-the-bloody-hell-are-you-doing look. He gives them a I-have-no-fucking-idea look. They give him back a you-fucking-numpty look. Basically, there’s a lot of looks going on.

“You don’t seem to have a Yorkshire accent?” says the receptionist.

“Ooh, aye,” says Dom, in a rather confused Northern accent, “I think yoo’ll find I doo.”

Eames facepalms. Arthur decides that this situation has gone far enough, leans forward and whispers, “He has problems,” pointing to his head, “You know, up there.”

“I see,” says the receptionist, “That does make sense. He does look like a simpleton.”

Dom’s mouth falls open, but Eames pinches the back of his knee before he can say anything.

“Ah, fuck!” he cries, “I mean, _ooh, fook_.”

“Where did you say Mr Fischer’s room is?” says Arthur, before this situation can get much more out of hand.

“Room two. On the second floor.”

“Thanks,” says Arthur, dragging Dom along by the arm.

“Oh, Dom,” says Eames, wheeling himself along, “You are _so_ good at working under pressure. What are you, a spy?”

“There was _no_ need for you to _maim_ me!”

“You think _you’re_ maimed? Which one of us is in a wheelchair?”

Arthur’s phone starts ringing, and he pulls it out of his pocket.

“Hello?” he says, fumbling as he holds it to his ear.

“And just _what_ do you think _you’re_ doing, young man?”

Arthur scrunches his eyes shut.

“Hi, mum.”

“Where are you?” Mrs Marlowe-Farrell screeches down the phone, “Are you with Eames?”

“Hi!” says Eames.

Arthur hits him.

“I _specifically_ told you I wanted to have a talk with you before _anything else_ happens with that boy,” Arthur’s mum says darkly.

“Yeah, well, we can talk this afternoon, mum.”

“And why can’t you come home now?”

“I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“Doing _what_ exactly?”

The lift doors open, and Eames wheels himself in, accidentally running over Arthur’s foot.

“Ah, _fuck_ , Eames!” Arthur cries.

“ _What_ are you doing?!”

“I’m in a lift?” Arthur offers by means of explanation.

“Sorry,” says Eames, as Arthur steps into the lift with Dom and hits the button marked _2_.

“Beverley Arthur Marlowe-Farrell, get home this instant!” Arthur’s mum cries.

“Er, sorry mum, I’ve got to go,” Arthur says hurriedly into his phone.

“No you don’t –” she begins, but Arthur ends the call.

“So,” says Arthur, hastily switching his phone off, “My mum thinks we’re having sex in a lift right now. I don’t know if that’s weirder than the truth.”

“It’s hotter than the truth,” says Eames, grinning.

“Eames, you can’t flirt with me, we’re brothers.”

“Didn’t stop Dean and Sam Winchester,” says Dom.

“Dean belongs with _Cas_!” Arthur cries.

(The Wincest vs. Destiel debate has been a long-running one between Arthur and Dom.) Mercifully, that’s when the lift doors open.

“Okay,” says Arthur, leading the others along the corridor until they reach room two, “Dom, don’t be weird. Eames, stay within the realms of brotherly love. We’re just three regular guys trying to get our urn back off an old guy in a retirement home.”

“Dom,” Eames says, from behind Arthur, “Put the plunger away.”

“Right,” says Arthur, and knocks on the door.

The man who answers the door is old and balding, with a big nose and grey hair. He looks frail and weak, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his breathing slow, but not Darth Vaderish – more like Yoda.

“If you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m going to hell anyway,” he says shortly.

“That’s alright,” says Eames, “I’m pretty sure we are too.”

“Actually, there’s no Jewish hell, so it looks like I’m not,” says Arthur, shrugging.

Eames blinks.

“How are you Jewish? You invited me to your house for Christmas.”

“Althoo tha’s not soomthin’ strainge, as we are broothurs an’ thurfore doo live t’gethur,” Dom interposes.

Arthur and Eames, very slowly, turn their heads to look at him. Then turn back to Mr Fischer.

“Please ignore him,” says Eames, “He’s mentally deformed.”

“Oh, I see that,” says the old man, nodding, “He does look like a simpleton.”

If Eames’ wheelchair happens to roll back over Dom’s foot, it is entirely a coincidence.

“We just want to talk,” says Arthur, as Dom screams northernly in pain like an injured and less attractive version of the ninth Doctor, “Can we come in?”

Mr Fischer thinks about it, then lets them in, muttering, “At least you’re better than the cat lady down the hall.”

“Thank you,” says Arthur, stepping in.

Mr Fischer’s room is fairly bare. There’s a bed, a few chairs, and a dresser. And there, on the table, is the ugly black urn, filled with flowers. But that’s not what catches Arthur’s eye. What does catch his eye is the few photos on the dresser – one of Mr Fischer when he was younger, with a young boy holding a paper windmill, and another of a striking young man with high cheekbones and startlingly blue eyes.

“That’s my son,” says Mr Fischer, when he sees Arthur staring, “You remind me a little of him, when he was younger.”

“He’s much more handsome than me,” says Arthur politely.

“I wouldn’t say that,” says Eames, giving Arthur an appraising up-and-down look.

Arthur clears his throat, and mouths ‘ _brotherly_ love’ at Eames.

“What does your son do?” he asks Mr Fischer politely.

Mr Fischer smiles grimly.

“I… I really don’t know. I haven’t spoken to Robert in a while.”

A silence falls, and the three boys look awkwardly down at the floor.

“Why are you here?” says Mr Fischer.

“Well, it’s about your vase,” says Arthur.

“My vase?”

“Your vase.”

“Well,” says Eames, “It’s actually an urn.”

“What?”

“You see,” says Arthur, “Eames had a garage sale yesterday. He sold you that vase, remember?”

Mr Fischer frowns at Eames.

“Oh yes. I remember you now. Scruffy lad who can’t spell ‘garage sale’. You weren’t in a wheelchair then.”

“Yeah,” says Eames, wincing, “A few things have happened since then. Involving cupboards.”

Arthur nods, patting Eames’ knee reassuringly.

“Don’t tell me more,” says Mr Fischer, grimacing slightly.

“Anyway,” says Arthur, “It turns out this vase is an urn. There’s someone’s remains in there. So, Eames kind of needs it back.”

“Oh,” says Mr Fischer, “Right. Well, I suppose you boys should take this urn and run off home before teatime.”

“Thank you,” says Arthur, taking the urn, “Sorry about the mix-up.”

“Thanks. We’ll be off now,” says Eames, as he and Arthur move towards the door.

“No,” Dom says suddenly.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“What?” says Eames.

“He’s coming with us.”

“Why?”

Dom looks at them, eyes wide, and points at the picture of Fischer’s son.

“Don’t you see? _Look at the photo_.”

Arthur looks back to the photo. And then he sees it.

“Oh God,” he breathes, “Jesus bollocking shit.”

“Language, young man,” scolds Mr Fischer.

“What?” cries Eames, “Guys! What the fuck’s going on?”

“ _Language_ ,” Mr Fischer repeats.

“ _Guys_!” Eames repeats.

“Can you see it?” asks Arthur.

“See _what_?”

Arthur tears his eyes away from the photo, looks at Eames.

“It looks like we’ve found your ghost.”

Eames looks back at the photo. His jaw drops.

“Oh – oh God. Is that – oh fuck, it is.”

Arthur turns back to Mr Fischer.

“Mr Fischer,” he says quietly, “When did you last see Robert?”

The old man shakes his head.

“Not for a long time. We – well, we had a falling-out some years back.”

“And you’ve been trying to find him?”

“Yes. That’s really the reason I came here. I heard he was living in the area. I thought I might find him. But I haven’t. I suppose he doesn’t want to be found. But – well, let’s just say I don’t have much time left to find him now. He’s probably still angry at me. He thought I was disappointed in him. I’m not, not at all. But I never told him that. If only I could, maybe he’d forgive me.”

Arthur nods.

“Mr Fischer,” he says, “You have to come with us.”

 

* * *

 

“This,” says Eames, leaning heavily on Arthur as he kicks open the door to his flat, “Has got to be the weirdest Christmas holiday I’ve ever had.”

“It’s not been too bad, though, has it?” says Arthur.

Eames looks at him, smiles.

“No. Not too bad at all,” he says, giving him a quick kiss.

“Jeez, tone down the PDA, guys,” Dom moans, “There is an old dude here. Plus it’s just really gross.”

Eames shrugs and gives Arthur a particularly sloppy kiss, full of tongue. Arthur blushes profusely, but doesn’t pull away.

“What are we doing?” says Mr Fischer, struggling up the stairs with the urn, “Why are we here?”

“Eames lives here,” says Arthur.

“I thought you said you lived together?” says Mr Fischer, casting a quizzical look at Dom.

“Ooh, aye, well –”

“Robert used to live here,” Arthur interrupts.

Mr Fischer’s eyes light up with hope.

“He did? When?”

“Until about six months ago.”

“Where did he go? What happened?”

“I think,” says Eames, holding the door open for the others, “Perhaps you should all sit down on the sofa.”

They do as Eames says, squishing up on the small, lumpy sofa. Eames flops down on it next to Arthur before Dom can sit down.

“Make us a cuppa, mate?” he says.

Dom gives him the finger.

“I have to operate the camera,” he says, pulling the video camera on its tripod next to the sofa.

“I’ll operate your camera if you don’t shut up,” Eames murmurs under his breath.

Arthur laughs and hits him. Mr Fischer leans in towards Arthur.

“Why is he not Northern anymore?” he asks, nodding towards Dom.

“It comes and goes,” says Eames, “Unlike his ability to be a twat. That’s pretty constant.”

“At least I have GCSEs,” Dom mutters, fiddling with the camera, “Unlike some people.”

“At least I have a dick, unlike some people,” Eames retorts.

“Your _mum_ has a dick.”

“Don’t you fucking –”

“ _Guys_!” shouts Arthur, “Please. Let’s just focus on the task at hand, shall we?”

“And what is that exactly?” asks Mr Fischer.

Arthur looks down, unsure of how to tell him.

“You know,” he begins, “You know that urn?”

Mr Fischer looks down at the ugly black urn on his lap.

“Yes?”

“It’s – well, it’s Robert’s.”

The old man’s face falls.

“What? How? What happened?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“I don’t know. All I know is that Robert died, and he didn’t leave, like most people do. He’s still here. So there has to be something unresolved about his death. Something he couldn’t get over.”

The lights flicker.

“He’s here?” says Mr Fischer, “Can he hear me?”

The lights die.

“Yes,” says a voice, and it’s cold and very near.

Dom nearly drops the camera. Arthur grips onto Eames’ thigh tightly. Something – _someone_ – very dark and wispy, the shape of a man, comes out from the kitchen, very, very slowly. It’s hard to see – easier if Arthur doesn’t look at it directly.

“Robert?” says Mr Fischer, his voice breaking with emotion.

“Father,” comes the reply, cool and distant.

“Robert – what happened to you?”

“I died.”

“Why? How?”

“Not important.”

Mr Fischer takes a breath, staring at the thing that used to be his son.

“Robert – son, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been looking for so long. I wanted to say – I’m sorry about what happened between us. I wanted to say I’m proud of you. And it took me some time to realise quite how much, but – I do love you, son.”

The ghost says nothing. But it seems, for a moment, as if he’s clearer, somehow. He takes a step forward, and they can see his face clearly. It’s the same face as the one in the photographs – the one of Eames with the figure behind him, the one of Robert in Mr Fischer’s room. But this time, the face is smiling. And then it’s like he’s turned to smoke, pouring into the urn in Mr Fischer’s hands, and disappearing.

“Is he gone?” asks Mr Fischer, tears on his cheeks.

“I think so,” Arthur says softly.

The lights flicker back on.

 

* * *

  
  
“I can’t believe,” says Dom, through a mouthful of crisps, “He was staying on just because he was pissed with his dad.”

The three of them – Dom, Arthur and Eames – are sat on Eames’ couch, cups of tea in hand, sharing a bag of crisps. Well, not exactly sharing. Dom’s displaying textbook douchebaggery and is eating the whole thing himself. Arthur doesn’t really mind, though – not when he’s curled up next to Eames with an arm around him.

“Parents are important,” says Arthur, “You need to know that they love you. Even if they’re not there anymore.”

Eames looks across at him and squeezes his hand.

“Do you think your dad’s still here?” Dom asks.

“No. Robert was here because he had unfinished business. Dad had a lot of time to put his affairs in order, sort everything out. He was ready to go, in the end. No, he’d have moved on, to wherever Robert’s off to now.”

Eames sighs and lets his head rest on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur thinks about his mum, leaving him. About Eames saying he couldn’t believe that she loved him now. Then his phone rings. Arthur groans.

“Speaking of death,” he says, “My mum is going to murder me.”

“Sorry,” says Eames, “That is kind of my fault.”

“What _did_ happen to you two last night?” asks Dom, “Apart from Robert the friendly ghost scaring you?”

“Nothing,” Arthur and Eames say in perfect unison.

Dom gives them an are-you-two-fucking-oh-my-good-lord-Jesus-you-actually-are-oh-God-mental-images-my- _mind_ -my-poor-poor-mind squint.

“Did you do stuff on my bed?”

“Er… maybe?” says Eames.

Dom’s face contorts into an expression of anger equal only to the blind rage of the Incredible Hulk.

“What base?!”

“Third,” Eames grins.

Dom throws his tea over him.

“I am never sleeping in that bed again!”


End file.
